Kenwood at Christmas

Out from repeated fractal grey

The falling licks of yellow flame

Burn brown the fronds of earthen brains
And all the years whares
Laid in carpet on the floor.
The blue has gone and slowly
Yellow turns to brown and grey
Leaving lignen tributaries
Stretched in awe up to the rain.

This a time of furs and scoured grass
The rasping wind in lupine howl
It barely takes a gasp. They will fish carp

Carve turkey and the year's fat from goose
The flames are burning now

These named benches of no use.